


Something Dark

by captainbunnicula (kradarua)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Choking, Dark Castiel, Dark Charlie Bradbury, Dark Dean Winchester, Dark Sam Winchester, Dom/sub Undertones, Illegal Activities, Killer Castiel, Killer Dean Winchester, M/M, Murder Husbands, Omega Castiel, Possessive Dean Winchester, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sexual Slavery, Spanking, Thief Dean Winchester, Torture, Translation Available, Under-negotiated Kink, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 09:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16889895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kradarua/pseuds/captainbunnicula
Summary: Castiel looked even wilder in person.Dean let his eyes roam over his (now fully clothed) form, smiling appreciatively. He inhaled deeply, curious to find no real trace of a scent.“He’s on scent blockers,” the employee explained. "Running this auction is involved enough without having to settle claim disputes if an omega’s scent triggers some alpha’s rut.”That suited him fine; both he and Sam were on scent blockers most of the time and he’d planned on requiring that Castiel stay on them too. It helped with anonymity.“Thank you,” he said, “That will be all.” The employee gave a small bow and left to service the other high bidders.“Well, Cas,” Dean said cheerily, “Let’s go home.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The SPN reverse bang landed right around the time I was finishing up my DCBB, and I told myself I would skip it and give myself a break. 
> 
> Then I saw [regasssa's](https://thedogsled.tumblr.com/) art and the next thing I knew I had snapped it right up, and now here we are with a fic that came out way darker than I expected it to. Oops? (yay!)
> 
> Heed the tags. Send love to regasssa and also my very patient and encouraging beta [Mal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses). Happy reading!
> 
> Edit: A Chinese translation is now available [here](https://weibo.com/ttarticle/p/show?id=2309404322678050840703) thanks to the wonderful [InnocentDays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnocentDays/pseuds/InnocentDays)!

He wondered vaguely if the atmosphere of this place was purposefully crafted or entirely coincidental.

Wait staff moved near-silently between the guests, the black of their uniforms camouflaging against the heavy velvet curtains lining two of the four walls, making them almost imperceptible save for the occasional flash of their silver trays in the low light. Clusters of lit candles cast long shadows across the tables they adorned, their ornate holders dripping with strings of glittering gems.

Despite being opulently dressed, most guests carried with them a layer of something dark and miserable, grimy ghosts wrapped around their shoulders and cascading over suits and gowns; an unintended accessory. Perhaps it was a side-effect of the poor lighting. Perhaps not.

Dean Winchester lifted a champagne flute from the tray of a passing waiter and watched the other occupants chatter amongst themselves. Body language ranged from threatening remorselessness to gleeful lechery, but none seemed at all perturbed about the motivations for this particular gathering. They may as well have been attending an art auction or a political gala, for all their hesitation.

Contempt curled his lip against the rim of his glass. It was only to be expected of the sort of crowd that could afford to be at such an event, he supposed.

“Would you like to browse the catalogues, sir?”

The voice was grating. To his left, a lanky man with grease-slicked hair and a slimy grin offered him a large, unlabeled binder. Dean cleared his throat to dispel the biting laugh that threatened to escape him; something about the juxtaposition of the employee’s stark white gloves at an event so crass was truly hilarious.

“Or perhaps I can recommend an item number based on your criteria?” the employee pressed before Dean could send him away.

“No need,” he replied gruffly, “I’m flexible.”

The employee gave a curt nod and moved on to the next patron.

In fact, Dean had quite the mental laundry list of criteria—his circumstances were precarious at best and there was very little room for error—but no employee would be able to make a sound recommendation no matter how many details he provided. No, it was solely up to him to make the right choice.

He would know it when he saw it. _If_ he saw it.

A chime sounded somewhere overhead and attention turned towards the stage at the far wall. A hush fell over the crowd as guests made their way forward, eager to obtain a standing spot with a prime view. Dean stayed where he was, his fingers tracing the edge of the slightly-crumpled advertisement inside his jacket pocket.

—

_“They’re getting worse.”_

_Dean scowled at the grousing, growling low in his throat when his attempts to leave the room were thwarted by the tall frame of his younger brother._

_Sam was unbothered; he met Dean’s glare with one of his own and shoved hard at Dean’s chest with one hand. Dean took a step back against his will._

_“Don’t give me that,” Sam hissed, “This one started in the middle of a heist, Dean. In the middle of the goddamn_ **_Met_** _.”_

_“Who cares? Everything worked out in the end,” Dean insisted, crossing his arms over his chest._

_“_ ** _So what?!_ ** _” Sam roared, “Is that a joke?! You lost control like a goddamn teenager and you stunk up the place so badly it’ll be a fucking miracle if you don’t have a scent profile on record after this. You nearly destroyed the hieroglyph slabs I lifted, and Charlie had to do extra work to spoof the security feeds because you_ **_forgot_ ** _where the cameras were!”_

_Dean scowled harder, unwilling to lower his gaze despite his embarrassment. Though he hated to admit it he knew Sam was right; the clean getaway despite Dean’s amateur-hour performance was nothing if not a testament to how far they’d come through years of practice and navigating many more close calls than was reasonable._

_“Look,” Sam said, running an exasperated hand through his too-long hair, “Generally speaking, I don’t want to know how you handle your ruts—” Dean emphatically agreed with the sentiment. “—but we can’t work like this, so here.” He pulled a folded paper from his back pocket and thrust it under Dean’s nose._

_“Pick someone. Anyone you think will do. I know what happened with Aaron messed you up and I’m sorry about it, but I’m not willing to go to jail because of it.”_

_Dean scanned the first sentence and balked at the idea._

_“Are you kidding me, Sam?” he hissed, “I’m not some ancient, smarmy gazillionaire who can’t get laid unless I pay for it. I’m not gonna_ **_buy_ ** _someone to help me through ruts.”_

_“I don’t see why not,” Sam countered dispassionately, “Given our circumstances I’d think someone legally obligated to follow instructions would be a perfect choice.”_

_“That’s not the_ **_point_ ** _—”_

_“Dean,” Sam continued, holding a hand up to interrupt him, “Go to this thing or don’t, but either way, I’m not doing another job until you find someone to handle your next rut. Whatever your hang-ups are, get over them.”_

_Sam turned on his heel and left Dean alone to stare down sullenly at the piece of paper in his hands._

_AUCTION_  
_For your pleasure, OA Agencies is offering a choice_ selection  
of _potential sexual companions for our most esteemed guests._  
_The lineup has been curated with our customers in_ mind  
by _our caring and_ attentive _team here at OA._  
_If there is anything we can do to ensure a pleasant experience,_  
_please do not hesitate to let us know._

—

He drained the last of his champagne as the auctioneer brought his gavel down to declare the current bid concluded. Dean recognized the man; Crowley was a smooth-talking, self-serving bastard, well-known by criminals for being a man of many talents, nearly all of which he used for evil. Dean had fenced several pieces through him over the years—despite his obnoxious arrogance and condescension there was no one better for a secure and anonymous sale—and was not even remotely surprised to find him contributing to the sex trafficking industry.

Crowley ushered his assistant back onto the stage for the next auction and indicated the new information projected on the screen behind him.

 **_Name_** _: Castiel_  
**_Gender_** _: Male Ω_  
**_Age_** _: 36_  
**_Height_** _: 6’1’’_  
**_Weight_** _: 190 lbs._  
**_Origin_** _: USA_

There were delighted murmurs around the room and even Dean raised an eyebrow, intrigued. There were several here who bought into the fetishized ideal of the male omega if the half-phrases that reached him were anything to go by; many were drawn to the idea of an omega who could not be impregnated and thus would necessitate no additional precautions. Dean was far more interested in this Castiel’s build; an omega over six feet was fairly uncommon regardless of primary sex.

Crowley’s assistant appeared from the left wing, tugging insistently at a heavy chain. A few steps behind her a man stumbled blindly, his vision obscured by the black fabric around his head and his hands tied at the wrists behind his back. He was completely unclothed.

Behind the stage occupants, the screen with Castiel’s information shifted to make room for a close-up view provided by the camera that started by his feet and panned slowly upwards. Dean watched attentively, comparing his mental checklist with what he saw.

Tan skin stretched over strong calves and thick thighs; Castiel was a runner, Dean was sure of it. Sharp hip bones came into view and the camera lingered at Castiel’s crotch, drawing wolf whistles from the crowd. He had no tan lines and a cock that Dean was certain could put several alphas in this room to shame. Eventually, the camera continued its journey upward over a toned stomach, sculpted pectorals, and broad shoulders. Despite his bound hands, the flex of his biceps was clearly visible. The camera stayed put at Castiel’s fabric-covered head.

The assistant gave the chain a downwards tug, indicating that Castiel should drop to his knees, but no such move of submission was made. Dean watched as Meg kicked at the backs of Castiel’s legs once, twice, before he buckled and dropped to the floor.  

“Ah, thank you Meg,” Crowley said, “And with that, the big reveal!”

Meg yanked the black fabric away from Castiel in one swift motion and Dean made his decision then and there.

Fierce blue eyes stared challengingly out at the crowd, daring any of them to underestimate him. He seemed entirely unconcerned by his nakedness, was even now flexing and tugging at the restraints around his hands and curling his lip in a sneer as he surveyed the room. The chain extending from the thick collar around his neck to Meg’s hand rattled as Castiel twisted. He looked coiled tight, like a storm threatening to break.

The longer he looked, the more intrigued he became. Though it was difficult to spot through a camera lens, a dark, mischievous glimmer flickered across his eyes and made Dean wonder about what lurked beneath Castiel’s surface. It reminded him of a loose thread, he realized; most wouldn’t notice it, but now that it’d caught his attention he wanted to give it a tug just to see where it lead.

“Some of you may have seen Castiel in the catalogues,” Crowley was saying, “but the handlers have informed me of some noteworthy changes to the personality profile.”

Curious murmurs rippled through the crowd and Crowley banged his gavel against the podium, demanding order. When the room was quiet once more, he gestured at the screen projected behind him. A number appeared in the top-left of the screen.

“Recent interactions have led the handlers to conclude that Castiel is obstinate and will likely require significant training.” The curious murmurs transitioned into sounds of disappointment; to most, a sex slave was meant to be a convenient outlet, an expression of abundant wealth, not an energy-intensive project that may or may not result in the desired outcome.

“In light of these changes, the starting bid for Castiel has been reduced from the standard three thousand to a very generous thirteen hundred. Do I have an opening bid?”

Dean’s number was in the air almost before Crowley had finished speaking, but the significantly discounted rate seemed to have appeased several in the crowd. Two more bids went up in quick succession and Dean growled under his breath.

“I have fourteen-fifty,” Crowley called, “do I hear fifteen?”

Dean’s number went up again. A few steps away another number went up, its owner holding up two fingers to indicate two thousand. Dean glared at the back of the man’s head and held his bid card high, his other hand coming up to indicate five thousand.

“Going once,” Crowley warned, but no one was willing to bid higher on a disobedient omega, no matter how gorgeous he was. “Going twice…” Crowley cast one more look around the room before bringing his gavel down firmly on the podium. “Sold, for five thousand dollars.”

Dean grinned as the black fabric was replaced over Castiel’s head and he was hauled to his feet and off the stage. He couldn’t wait to meet him.

—

Castiel looked even wilder in person.

Dean let his eyes roam over his (now fully clothed) form, smiling appreciatively. When he returned his gaze to Castiel’s face he was met with a wary scowl. Dean moved to stand directly in front of him and Castiel did not lower his eyes or curl into himself. A pleased smirk quirked one side of Dean’s mouth upwards and he inhaled deeply, curious to find no real trace of a scent.

“He’s on scent blockers,” the employee who had brought Castiel out explained.

“Oh?”

“It’s a safety precaution; running this auction is involved enough without having to settle claim disputes if an omega’s scent triggers some alpha’s rut. The blockers will wear off within twenty-four hours.”

Dean nodded without looking away from Castiel. That suited him fine; both he and Sam were on scent blockers most of the time and he’d planned on requiring that Castiel stay on them too. It helped with anonymity.

“Thank you,” he said, “That will be all.” The employee gave a small bow and left to service the other high bidders.

“Well, Cas,” Dean said cheerily, “Let’s go home.”


	2. Chapter 2

The drive home was mostly silent, save for the roar and purr of the engine. Perhaps this should have worried Dean, but he felt rather grateful for the opportunity to sort out his own thoughts. 

Deciding to bring Castiel home had been the easy part, comparatively speaking. A mountain of details in need of ironing out loomed, and waiting too long to have those conversations would only cause more problems. Still, they could afford to wait a few days while Castiel settled into Dean’s home. The contract he’d signed at the auction house included a return policy of sorts, so in the worst case, Castiel would be returned to Crowley. If things took an unfortunate twist towards the  _ worst  _ of worst cases, well. 

Cross that bridge if need be.

Next to him, Castiel seemed...conflicted. He had not been argumentative about leaving with Dean, but he sat stiffly, warily, like he was ready to throw open the car door and leap if he determined there was such a need. His gaze was directed out the window, but he was clearly listening carefully to Dean’s every breath, processing, analyzing. 

This behavior boosted Dean’s spirits and he smiled as he turned the car into his driveway; perhaps the difficult conversations stood a fair chance of ending in his favor. 

“You can leave your bag here for now,” Dean said once they were inside, toeing off his shoes and loosening his tie. When he turned, Castiel’s expression was the same chilly neutral it had been in the car, but he clutched the blue duffle over his shoulder tighter. “Or keep it with you, if you prefer,” Dean amended with a small chuckle.

Castiel followed behind him as he made his way around the house, pointing out this and that as he went. In the hallway that lead to the kitchen, Dean rapped his knuckles firmly against the heavy door that lead downstairs.

“Every room in the house is available to you,” he said over his shoulder, “except this one. You might be tempted to go snooping; don’t. Understood?”

“I understand.” 

Despite uttering only a handful of words between the auction house and now, Dean was already drawn to Castiel’s voice. The rough, low timber was unexpected, but a very pleasant surprise. It suited him.

Dean ended the tour in Castiel’s room, just down the hallway from his own. By the slight raise of his eyebrows, he guessed that Castiel had not counted on having a space of his own; Dean hoped it would help him acclimate quickly.

“I’m going to make myself dinner and finish up some work,” Dean announced, watching as Castiel placed his duffle—the entirety of his property, for the moment— on the bed. “Help yourself to the fridge and whatever else you need. If you have questions, feel free to come find me.” 

He turned to leave Castiel alone, but paused in the doorway; strange as the dynamics of their relationship were, he wanted Castiel to know that he was not in danger. He cleared his throat.

“You’re safe here,” Dean said without turning around. There was no response. “I hope you settle in quickly.”

— 

His eyes, ears, and nose had utterly failed him for the first time in Castiel’s memory.

A heavy sigh left him as a hand came up to rub at tired eyes. Despite his best efforts to glean something, anything, about the man who now legally owned him, not even a tiny inkling of his intentions had presented itself. The car ride had been largely silent, his scent had remained almost uncannily steady, and Castiel—pride himself as he might for his own perceptiveness—had found his body language entirely unreadable.

Dean Winchester seemed...unusual.

The sole fact that he hadn’t forcefully dragged Castiel to his bed and rutted into him the moment they were through the door already separated him from a considerable number of the patrons who typically frequented sex slave auctions. So far, Dean had been nothing but appropriate, showing Castiel around his home and offering him his own space as though he considered him a temporary house guest instead of purchased property. It set Castiel’s teeth on edge; surely the other shoe would drop soon, and if it were up to him, he’d rather figure out early on what horrors his new owner had in store for him.

He had few belongings—maybe a week’s worth of clothing, a few trinkets that held sentimental value, a toothbrush—and he was unsure what to do with himself once his duffle bag was empty. Dean had offered him the freedom to roam, but Castiel was reluctant to leave his room. Experience had taught him that alpha owners could be quite mercurial.

Although, perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing. Getting himself into some trouble might show him what to expect from Dean. Omega though he might be, Castiel was no frail, shivering thing; he was confident he could handle whatever punishment Dean dished out. There was a reason he had been sold so cheaply, after all. Even the most violent of his previous owners hadn’t been able to subdue him into the quiet, obedient omega he was expected to be. 

If Crowley were here, he’d insist that Castiel follow the training script given to all omegas upon their arrival at the auction house.  _ Present yourself, Castiel, _ he’d say.  _ Give your new owner what he paid for _ .

Though he was loathe to bend over for anyone outside of his choosing, he supposed the situation could certainly be worse. Castiel guessed that Dean was likely only a few years his senior and he was considerably better looking than most of the people Castiel had been forced to service. Perhaps, instead of wandering around inside his own head until the deed was done, Castiel would be able to draw some modicum of pleasure from sex with Dean.

Then again, his own experiences dictated that Dean was unlikely to care about Castiel’s arousal so long as he got to stuff his cock somewhere warm. He quashed the bubble of  _ perhaps _ and  _ maybe _ before it had time to fully form. Better to go in expecting the worst.

With a kind of tired resignation, he picked up his toothbrush and slipped into the hallway, intent on finding a place to freshen up.

—

When Dean next appeared in the living room it was to find Castiel on the couch, stripped of his clothing and presenting patiently for him, cheek pressed against the soft cushions and back arched so that he was invitingly exposed. 

Castiel heard a sharp intake of breath—was Dean surprised to find him like this? Why? He had been purchased to be a sexual companion, after all—and waited. Dean said nothing. A moment later, Castiel felt the air stir across the backs of his thighs and realized with a start that Dean had moved to stand behind him without making any noise; he was certainly light on his feet.

A large hand just barely skimmed from the back of his knee all the way up his thigh, the faint touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. The hand settled against the swell of his backside and Dean’s fingers dug indulgently into the flesh, his thumb pressing close to Castiel’s hole and pulling gently, opening him further to Dean’s scrutiny.

Castiel scented the air as subtly as he could, finding only the barest hint of the heavy alpha musk that signified arousal. He steeled himself for the inevitable, but Dean didn’t make any move to enter him. 

Instead, he pressed his thumb to Castiel’s rim and rubbed in slow circles. Castiel bit the inside of his cheek to stop the hiss that threatened to leave him, and behind him Dean hummed quietly, sounding pleased.

“Look at you,” came Dean’s voice, low and heavy, “I’ll admit, I’m tempted.” He punctuated the sentiment by tapping his thumb firmly against the ring of muscle three times, chuckling when Castiel clenched in surprise. “But there will be plenty of time for that during my rut. For the next few days, focus on settling in.”

His hand fell away and Castiel heard receding footsteps. By the time he sat up (slowly, after staying arched for so long), Dean was gone from the room, leaving Castiel confused and, if he were honest, a little turned on.

— 

True to his word, Dean gave Castiel plenty of space for the remainder of the week. So much space, in fact, that Castiel rarely saw him; if not for the occasional flash of a leg disappearing around a corner or the sounds of a toilet flushing, he might have wondered if Dean truly existed at all. 

Gradually, Castiel grew less cautious about exploring his new home. The suspicious anticipation did not completely leave him—another shoe could drop at any moment—but he let his guard drop a few degrees as he became familiar with the house and with Dean’s routines.

Four days after he had arrived, Dean summoned him to the lounge after dinner. When he entered, Dean was twisting a bit of chalk against the top of a pool cue. Castiel waited silently, hands behind his back the way he’d been taught, for Dean to address him.

“Have you played before?” Dean asked as he lined up his opening shot. He nodded when Dean caught his eye. “Play with me,” he instructed, gesturing in the direction of additional cues.

Castiel brought one over and watched as the cue ball sent everything else sliding around the table. Dean considered the resulting layout for a moment before taking aim and sinking two solid colored balls in one shot.

“I’d like to confess something to you,” Dean said, drawing Castiel’s attention from the table. His next target missed the hole and he stood up straight, considering Castiel with a raised eyebrow and knowing smirk. “You don’t need my permission to speak, you know,” he chided, indicating for Castiel to take his turn. Castiel cleared his throat.

“What would you like to confess?” He studied the table, deciding on an easy target: a striped ball directly in line with the corner hole. Perhaps Dean had a foot fetish or wanted him to dress head to toe in latex. He dimly hoped whatever kink Dean announced wouldn’t be anything hugely unsanitary.

“Before I do,” Dean said, watching as Castiel lined up his next shot, “you should know that I have a few expectations about how you’ll handle what I’m going to tell you.” Another striped ball disappeared. Castiel glanced at Dean curiously as he made his way around the table.

“First, you’ll keep anything I say tonight strictly to yourself.”

Castiel’s attention was split between Dean’s even voice and the pool table, and the cue ball spun off course, barely brushing its target. 

“Second,” Dean continued, leaning over the table to get the angle he wanted, “I expect an honest answer to any question I ask you.” He paused to take his shot, the tip of a pink tongue poking out from between his lips. He made a small, victorious gesture when the ball went in before looking Castiel in the eye. “I mean it. If you don’t have an immediate, definitive answer, say so, because I’ll hold you to whatever answers you give me. I’m happy to let you think on things if you need to.”

Castiel nodded, and Dean came around to his side of the table for his next shot. There weren't any easy ones for him to take; he settled for scattering a cluster of Castiel’s striped balls away from his solid ones. Castiel leaned forward over the table for his turn.

“And third,” Dean said, “If I find out that you’ve repeated any of this to anyone else, I’ll do whatever needs to be done to fix the situation.” There was a sudden, hard edge to his voice, and Dean brought his pool cue down with a sharp crack over Castiel’s, blocking him from moving. Castiel’s eyebrows rose and he looked up at Dean, startled. His behavior seemed an overreaction; perhaps his fetish was a particularly embarrassing one.

“Do you understand?”

Castiel nodded, wary of the sharp look in his eyes. This steely version of Dean was new to him.

“I need a verbal answer, Cas.”

“I understand.”

All at once, the warmth returned to green eyes and Dean smiled easily at him. “Great,” he said cheerfully. 

Castiel looked down at the table and pulled his cue back to strike. If he hit at just the right angle, the cue ball would probably spin enough to catch the striped ball directly next to his original target— 

“Cas, I’m a thief.”

His hand slipped and the pool cue scraped uselessly against the table top without so much as brushing the cue ball. Behind him, Dean laughed.

Incredulous, Castiel turned to look at him, certain Dean was joking around, but there was nothing devious in his mirth. He narrowed his eyes at him and Dean laughed again, clearly amused by Castiel’s surprise. 

“You’re a—is that a joke?”

“Not at all,” Dean assured him through his dying giggles, “I’m a thief. I steal things.”

Castiel watched as Dean returned to their game, unconvinced that Dean wasn’t just playing tricks on him but unable to suss out his motive for doing so.

“What sorts of things?”

Dean shrugged, a carefree smile on his face.

“Anything I want. Anything that’ll fetch a pretty penny.” His smile became a devious smirk. “Sometimes, if someone pisses me off, I’ll steal from them just to be a jerk; those kinds of people have it coming.”

It certainly explained a few things; Dean’s presence and ability to spend money at a sex slave auction, for one thing. His ability to wander about completely undetected, for another. Unexpected as it was, Castiel supposed this was considerably preferable to his imagined scenarios.

“My brother, Sam, and I work together,” Dean elaborated, “Sam creates forgeries of high-profile pieces, and I go in and swap them out for the real things. We’ve been doing it for years.” Two more solid balls sank out of sight; Castiel had fallen considerably behind. 

“Why are you telling me this?”

Dean drummed his fingers against the tabletop and kept his face turned away from Castiel, suddenly hesitant.

“In the middle of our last job,” Dean admitted, quiet and angry, “I went into rut. Nearly landed both of us in jail. I need you to prevent that from happening again.” He looked up and gave Castiel a lascivious wink. “You’re here to help me blow off some steam.”

Castiel knew this, more or less; what he didn’t understand was why Dean had bothered telling him about his criminal activity.

“I meant, why tell me you’re a thief,” he clarified. Dean stood straight and considered him, folding his hands over the top of his cue and resting his chin on them.

“Because I’d like to be comfortable in my own home,” he said, “and I can’t do that if I have to maintain some sort of facade. I don’t have the time or energy to do so, anyway. And because—” He leaned back over the table and sank another solid ball. “—I’d like you to work with me. With us.”

Castiel blinked at him. This was...unexpected, to say the least. Darker periods of his life had necessitated that he develop sticky fingers; better to steal a can of soup than starve to death on the street with his morality intact. But Dean wasn’t talking about a smash-and-grab at some dinky convenience store.

“You’re asking me to...become a thief?”

Dean shook his head. “I’m not asking that. I haven’t asked you anything yet. I’m giving you background information so that you can make an informed decision before you’ve committed any crimes.”

Castiel couldn’t help but snort derisively at that. Dean’s jaw stiffened minutely.

“Something funny?”

“Forgive me,” Castiel muttered, lowering his eyes submissively, even if it only meant he was scowling at the floor instead of Dean. “You own me. What exactly am I meant to make an informed decision about?”

Dean sighed.

“Look, Cas, I’ve read the auction contract. Legally you may be property, but I’m not gonna take your free will from you. I may be a criminal, but I do have  _ some _ moral standards. I don’t want you committing crimes with or for me if it’ll cause ethical dilemmas or make you unhappy.”

Castiel cleared his suddenly dry throat, discomfited by the open sentiment. Dean didn’t seem vulnerable or like he’d said anything worthy of an emotional response; he might have used the same tone to report the weather. But so foreign was the concept of anyone bothering with his own happiness that Castiel latched onto it in spite of himself.

“What are you asking of me?”

Dean set his cue on the table and strode over to Castiel, stopping less than a foot in front of him. Castiel held his gaze, searching Dean’s eyes for something—he didn’t know what—and getting distracted by the shades of green.

“I’m asking,” Dean murmured, regarding him seriously, “Now that you know what you do, would you like to stay here, with me?”

Castiel was silent, considering. 

“Be sure,” Dean reminded him, “I’ll hold you to your answer, whatever it is.”

“What happens if I say no?” In fact, he was already decided, but he was curious. Just how much of a choice did he have? 

“I’ll tear up our contract and return you to the auction house,” Dean said, “But if that’s your choice, remember that I expect you to keep my secrets.” This close, Castiel watched, fascinated, as Dean’s eyes turned cold and menacing. When he next spoke, his voice was as unyielding as steel. “Thievery is my forte, Cas, but I’m more than happy to clean up loose ends as needed.”

He knew he was meant to lower his eyes again, make himself small, but he did neither. He stood his ground, meeting Dean’s frigid gaze with ice of his own.

“Is that a threat?”

The corners of Dean’s mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly into a heartless smirk.

“Just background information.”

Castiel knew what awaited him back at the auction house; more useless training from Crowley that he’d just ignore, another sleazy home with a sleazier owner, terrible sex and terrible treatment.

Dean Winchester was unusual, and unusual was intriguing. It certainly didn’t hurt that he was very aesthetically pleasing.

“I’ll stay,” he whispered into the silence between them. Green eyes warmed at once and Castiel was caught off guard when Dean tugged him forward with a hand against the back of his neck. How a kiss could be so filthy without any tongue was a mystery; by the time his eyes slid shut, Dean was already pulling away and wandering back to the pool table. Castiel blinked and shook his head to dispel the fog.

“Can I make a request?” he asked as Dean lined up his next shot.

“Shoot.”

“Teach me to be a thief?”

Dean smiled wide at him from across the table, a mischievous glint in his eye. “We’ll start tomorrow,” he said, winking at him as he sunk another ball.


	3. Chapter 3

“God _dammit_.”

Dean snorted at Castiel’s frustration and gestured for Sam to reset the alarm. The more of Castiel’s voice he heard, the more certain he was that someone had bottled thunder and forced it inside his vocal cords just to see what would happen.

If that someone ever became known to him, he’d send them flowers.

He strode to the middle of the room where Castiel scrubbed frustrated hands through his hair as he faced his current nemesis: a basic lock.

“Relax,” Dean told him, ignoring the scowl Castiel threw over his shoulder. “You got it unlocked that time; five seconds faster and you would’ve beaten the timer.”

“This is such a stupid thing to be stuck on.”

Dean smirked at Castiel’s expression; when annoyed, he had a habit of glaring at inanimate objects as though his wrath alone could scare them into apologizing for purposefully wronging him. Last week it had been the espresso machine.

“Everyone has a weak spot,” Dean offered. Truthfully, he was impressed that it had taken so long to find something Castiel truly struggled with. He and Sam had been pushing him hard for the past few weeks, speed training him on as many of the basic skills needed for a heist as they could think of.

Sam had reported that grifting seemed to come quite naturally to him; sometimes his speech was awkward and stilted, but Sam thought this endeared him to people, made them more willing to trust him quickly.

Dean had been delighted to find that in addition to being strong, Castiel was incredibly flexible. He had very little trouble dancing across the laser grids Dean set up for him and no trouble at all twisting at awkward angles to reach things. Basic lifts and misdirection came easily too.

And yet, here he was, thwarted by a lock he couldn’t pick. Dean found it immensely funny.

“Try it one more time,” he said, giving Castiel a pat on the shoulder. “After we’re done here, wash up and come to my room.” Blue eyes searched his face. “Your clothes won’t be necessary.”

Instead of answering Castiel’s unasked questions, he turned and made his way back to Sam, nodding. Sam started the timer.

“Go.”

—

Belatedly, it occurred to Castiel that this was the first time he’d been invited to Dean’s bedroom. Dean beckoned him inside when he knocked and Castiel inhaled as he stepped through the door. The scent blockers prevented him from being enveloped in Dean’s scent the way he might have been otherwise, but it was still strongest in here. Traces of leather and whiskey drifted tauntingly past him, enough to intrigue but too faint to catch more of.

When he looked around, Dean was smirking at him from over by the closet.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, clearly referring to his own scent. Castiel flushed at being caught. “This could get pretty awkward otherwise.”

“How do you want me?”

The words came out flat, disinterested. He’d slipped into autopilot without meaning to, so accustomed was he to gritting his teeth and letting his owner have their way without regard for him. When he was lucky, it was over quickly.

But Dean didn’t look offended by his tone. “On the bed,” he said, nodding towards the large mattress. “On your stomach.”

Castiel went, relishing the soft slide of the plush comforter across his bare skin.

“I know I said we’d wait until my rut,” Dean’s voice came from near the door, followed closely by a soft click. The overhead lights went out, leaving only the gray light from a cloudy afternoon streaming through the large windows on the left wall. “But I have one more training exercise for you.”

Castiel furrowed his brow. What skill did Dean hope to train him in by fucking him?

The bed dipped next to him and Castiel pressed his other cheek into the bedding so that he could see Dean. His body language read calm and collected, but his eyes gave him away; there was hunger there.

“So far, you seem trustworthy,” Dean said, “but I need to be sure. I’m going to touch you, and I need you to keep completely still; can you do that?”

Castiel nodded.

“Verbal answers, Cas.”

He found Dean’s eyes. “Yes.”

“Good.” Dean vanished from his line of sight and re-settled himself across the backs of Castiel’s legs. Castiel waited, straining his ears for any sign of what Dean planned to do, but Dean made no noise, not even when he leaned forward to place a warm hand against Castiel’s left shoulder blade. If not for the point of contact and the shifting of the mattress with his weight, Castiel wouldn’t have known he moved.

Against his skin, Dean’s fingers flexed and spread wide. The hand dragged downwards, sweeping slowly over his scapula, his rib cage, the dip of his lower back, his ass cheek. Like when he’d presented for Dean on his first day here, Dean squeezed the plush roundness of his backside under his fingers. If Castiel paid close enough attention, he could feel the slightest tremor in the way the fingers curled, like they intended to squeeze harder.

Dean was restraining himself.

His hand came up to the top of Castiel’s shoulder again and repeated the motion, his other hand coming up to do the same on the other side. For a few minutes they stayed that way, Dean lazily petting Castiel’s body and Castiel indulging in the physical contact, wondering which part of this training exercise was meant to be difficult.

On the next brush of his hands, Dean’s fingers trailed feather-light over the edge of Castiel’s spine, leaving a tickling, itchy feeling behind. Castiel tried to will it away, but it was a lost cause; the feeling had taken root. When Dean’s fingers passed over the same spot, he flinched reflexively.

Quick as lightning and without any warning, a firm slap fell against his ass, sharp and stinging. If not for the ticklish spot he might have fallen asleep this way, but now he was wide awake, too surprised to make any noise.

“I told you not to move,” Dean reminded him, voice soft but reprimanding, “Most of the places we’ll hit incorporate laser grids and motion sensors into their security systems. That flinch could have blown the job.”

Castiel stayed stock still as Dean resumed his petting, eyes wide and heart racing. At each brush of Dean’s palms over him he held his breath, waiting to see if Dean would swipe the ticklish spot again and only exhaling once he had successfully passed it.

On the third pass, he felt it again. He pulled in slow, deep breaths, trying to relax his way through the nagging discomfort. It was no use; one more swipe and he was flinching again.

Dean brought his hand down across his other cheek this time. Castiel was prepared enough to expect it but not prepared enough that he could conceal his reaction; a startled yelp found its way out of him, earning himself two more slaps.

“Shhhh,” Dean murmured, “Can’t have you summoning the guards in the middle of a job, Cas.”

Dean was right; how ridiculous would it be to end up in jail because of an ill-timed itch, or some other similar discomfort? He willed himself to stay still and silent as Dean brought his palms to Castiel’s skin once more.

“Good,” Dean declared at last, after fifteen torturous strokes. Castiel exhaled slowly, relieved, as two of Dean’s fingers came up to press gently at the top of his spine. The fingers trailed soothingly over every vertebra and did not pause at his tailbone, continuing their path down the middle of his ass to rest teasingly against his hole.

Castiel took stock of himself for the first time and was surprised to find that his cock ached between his legs, fully erect and rubbing into soft covers that offered no real friction. He longed to cant his hips backward against Dean’s fingers but wasn’t sure if the motion would earn him relief or another slap.

Perhaps either outcome was fine with him.  

Dean chuckled darkly behind him and applied pressure until the tips of his two fingers slipped inside. Castiel’s hips twitched reflexively.

“So tight,” Dean murmured, sounding reverent. The fine tremor that Castiel had detected in Dean’s hands when he’d first dug fingers greedily into his skin had relocated to his voice, and for the first time in many years, Castiel felt pride at his owner’s enjoyment of him.

Fingers curled and tugged gently at his rim, drawing a low hiss as he was stretched. Dean made a strangled sound and roughly tugged his fingers free. Castiel suppressed a whine at the loss, but a moment later he could hear the clink of Dean’s belt buckle and the rustling of fabric.

Castiel used the opportunity to spread his legs wide, bending one and sliding it up along the mattress. And then Dean was back and Castiel grabbed at the blankets as Dean curled strong hands around his upper arms, keeping him pressed down into the bed. Dean’s weight settled against his back, warm and heavy, and Castiel caught something spicy in the air as Dean bent to mouth at Castiel’s shoulder. He thrust his cock experimentally against Castiel’s slick hole and groaned softly. Castiel was on scent blockers too, of course, but he wondered if Dean could smell his arousal anyway.

“Can’t wait any longer,” Dean growled into his ear, biting carelessly up and down the side of his neck. The fine tremor was back again, this time evident in the way his jaw twitched against Castiel’s skin when he bit down.

There was something dark in Dean, he realized; something violent that he kept tucked away, hidden beneath the surface.

Perhaps he should have felt afraid, and perhaps some rational part of him was. But another—decidedly unwise—part of him felt something dark stir in his own blood, something hot and vicious that made his stomach swoop and had him aching for Dean to shove inside him already.

“Then stop waiting,” he growled back, delighting at the way Dean’s nails dug harshly into his skin when he pressed back against his cock.

A sound somewhere between a whine and a snarl left Dean as he reached down to line himself up properly and then he was pushing in, slowly, achingly.

“Relax,” he muttered against Castiel’s spine, but Castiel couldn’t tell if the order was meant for him or if Dean was chastising himself. The tremor was everywhere now; it was in the stutter of Dean’s hips, in his twitching fingers against Castiel’s arm and hip, in his uneven breathing against Castiel’s skin.

A choked gasp left one of them once Dean was fully seated inside him, and Castiel circled his hips against the sizeable intrusion, appreciating the stretch and press of Dean’s thick cock. Dean pulled his hips back and pushed in again, slow and methodical. Castiel grit his teeth against the covers, irritated.

“I’m not delicate,” he bit out, “If you mean to fuck me, then fuck me.”

Dangerous of him to demand something of his owner, he knew. It was part of the reason he’d been sent back to the auction house time and again, one owner after another unwilling—and unable—to mold him into a pliant, submissive omega that just took whatever was dished out.

Dean was different; a pliant, submissive mate didn’t suit him.

True to form, Dean snarled and pulled out until just the crown of his dick was sheathed inside Castiel and then dropped back down, his balls smacking heavily against Castiel’s skin. Castiel felt the furrow in his brow ease at the rough slide of Dean’s cock, and Dean must have noticed his reaction because he leaned forward to speak into his ear.

“This what you want?” he asked, punctuating the question with two more hard thrusts and a nip to Castiel’s earlobe. Castiel groaned breathily and arched his back, pushing his hips as high as they’d go in his current position. “Should’ve guessed by your build that you could handle more than most,” Dean was saying, “That’s part of why I brought you home, after all. Knew you weren’t some delicate flower, knew you could handle me.”

Castiel preened under the praise, reaching back for any part of Dean he could find. His fingers brushed a wrist and he closed around it tight, urging Dean on. He let himself get lost as Dean’s thrusts blurred together in his mind, drunk on the pleasure and the forgotten feeling of getting fucked the way he wanted to.

He was not even remotely ashamed of the growls and whimpers that spilled from him when Dean’s weight suddenly disappeared, leaving him open and unsatisfied.

A hand cupped the back of his neck and Castiel blinked until he could see Dean sitting beside him, eyes sharp and hungry in the dim light from the window.

“Ride me,” Dean ordered simply, and in a heartbeat Castiel had sat up and situated himself on Dean’s lap, groaning low when he slid down onto Dean’s cock.

“That’s it,” Dean encouraged breathily, settling back against the mattress and using his hands to help guide Castiel’s hips. Castiel’s eyes were closed, but he could feel Dean’s boring into him, studying him.

For a moment there was silence save for their heavy breathing and the slap of their connecting skin as Castiel dropped onto Dean’s lap again and again, chasing release. He looked down when Dean tugged at his wrists, trying to pry him away from where he was pressing into Dean’s chest for leverage. Filtering through the hazy arousal in his eyes was a determined edge that Castiel didn’t know what to make of.

“I need you to do something for me, Cas,” he said, suddenly serious. Castiel slowed his movements. Dean took Castiel’s hands and slid them around his own neck. Castiel watched, confused; Dean’s pulse thudded beneath his fingers.

“Choke me.”

Castiel stopped moving altogether, his lust momentarily forgotten.

“I could hurt you,” he argued. As far as kinks went, choking was not new to him; he’d had more than one owner get off on having their fingers around his neck, cutting off his air supply. Castiel hated it. He hated the dizzy, panicked feeling, he hated the fear that crept in at the edges and made him wonder if this was how he would die, he hated the feeling of helplessness.

But he’d never been in this position before, had never had _his_ hands wrapped around someone _else’s_ throat. He didn’t know how hard to squeeze, didn’t know where to put his hands so he didn’t cause lasting damage. The dark feeling in the pit of his stomach swirled and made him wonder if he’d be able to let go at all.

“I put your hands in the right place,” Dean assured him, “all you need to do is squeeze.” He swiveled his hips upwards, pressing against Castiel’s insides. “Can you do that for me, Cas?”

Dean’s eyes were mischievous, eager. On his own head be it, then. Castiel nodded. Dean rewarded him by taking hold of his hips and thrusting upwards, setting a rhythm no less brutal than when their positions had been reversed.

Castiel groaned and tried to concentrate through the sensation. His fingers twitched against Dean’s neck and then he gave a tentative squeeze. Dean smirked, clearly challenging him to do better. Castiel tightened his grip steadily, carefully, until Dean’s mouth parted on a gasp, eyes fluttering closed as he dragged Castiel’s hips down onto him. The head of Dean’s cock pressed roughly against his prostate and Castiel loosened his grip in his distraction, a broken moan leaving his mouth as he swirled his hips for more of the feeling.

“Focus,” Dean chided, though somewhat breathlessly. Castiel strengthened his grip again, shuddering every time Dean hit the right spot. Heat pooled in him and threatened to overflow. “Wanna—knot you—”  

Castiel could only jerk his head in what he hoped was a nod at the gasped words. Dean thrust hard once, twice, before his knot began to catch at Castiel’s rim.

“Let—go—”

It occurred to him that he could just keep squeezing. He could squeeze until the life left Dean and then he could take whatever valuables he could find and disappear. He would never have to see Crowley again, would never have to deal with shitty owners, would no longer be bound by a contract, would no longer be property. Maybe he could find his previous owners and choke the life out of them too.

Castiel studied Dean’s face. His eyes were open and fierce, body shaking beneath Castiel as his orgasm threatened. That edge that danced in green eyes, Castiel recognized it. It was in his own eyes too, he knew, and he yanked his hands off Dean’s neck and fell forward, hands keeping him balanced just above Dean’s shoulders.

Dean gasped and growled, pounding fast and hard into Castiel until his knot finally caught. Castiel hissed as Dean pulsed and throbbed inside him, spilling warm and sticky. Dean kept his hips rocking upwards through his orgasm and then Castiel was coming with a shout, painting pearly white streaks across Dean’s heaving chest.

They breathed heavily in the dark. Castiel’s arms shook and he brought his forehead to rest against Dean’s, eyes still closed. A sudden desire to claim a kiss the way Dean had weeks ago in the lounge struck him, but he clamped down on it and let himself fall to the side. Dean turned with him, maneuvered them into a comfortable position to wait out his knot, and threw a hand across Castiel’s waist.

“So,” Castiel said once his breathing returned to normal, “You like being choked.”

Dean laughed. “I don’t have strong preferences about it, actually,” he corrected. Castiel frowned, and Dean tapped at his temple cheerfully. “Did you forget this was a training exercise?”

Castiel had, in fact. He swallowed. “Did I pass?”

“You did,” Dean looked proud of him. “Jobs rarely go exactly according to plan,” he explained, “When things go awry, someone needs to make a call and know that the rest of the team will follow instructions. I’m that someone; I need to know that if I tell you to do something, you’ll do it without wasting a bunch of time arguing.”

Dean gave an experimental tug of his hips and Castiel hissed as he slipped free. He turned onto his stomach as Dean stretched lazily, yawning. Castiel watched, baffled by Dean’s choice of training methods.

“I could have killed you.”

Dean laughed and rose from the bed to flick the desk lamp on. Castiel blinked against the sudden light.

“I know,” Dean said, rifling through his drawers for clothes, “but you didn’t. That tells me I can trust you not to wander off on your own tangents while we’re out and about.” He paused on his way out the door, and his next words were a quiet threat.

“Don’t make me regret trusting you, Cas.”

“Don’t make me regret releasing you.”

The counter came unbidden and Castiel waited, tense, wondering if he’d stepped over the line at last. The silence dragged on for a full minute before Dean chuckled and left the room. Castiel exhaled.

“Sam and I have a job next week,” he called from the hallway, “You’re coming with.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Comm check; can everyone hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Yes, I can hear you Charlie.”

“Check.”

“Alright bitches, you know the drill. On my count.”

—

_ “What do you have for us, Charlie?” _

_ The redheaded beta smirked, waving the roll of papers she was carrying. “Blueprints,” she said, slapping them down onto the dining room table and unraveling them with a flourish, “for Archangel.” _

_ Dean leaned eagerly over the table to peer at the documents. Zachariah’s name had been all over the news recently—a scandal here, a cover-up there, some racist comments for good measure—but it was his disgusting and conspicuous greed that had landed him on Dean’s shit list. Anticipatory excitement thrummed in him at the thought of Zachariah’s smarmy face when he realized he’d been robbed. He wondered if he could make the man puff up with rage like an angry blowfish. Oh, wouldn’t  _ **_that_ ** _ be funny to see.  _

_ “Archangel?” Castiel’s voice came from over his shoulder. _

_ “A gallery owned by one Zachariah Milton,” Dean supplied without looking up, “Mostly he uses it to show off his latest shopping spree. Far as I can tell he doesn’t actually care about the items he buys; usually with guys this wealthy there’s some sort of pattern, but…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “I think he buys things just to show off his money. What a dick.” _

_ “You dislike him,” Castiel observed. _

_ Across the table, Sam snorted loudly. “That’s putting it  _ **_very_ ** _ mildly,” he said, sharing a knowing look with Charlie. “Dean hates him because of how he spends his money.” _

_ “He’s not even  _ **_creative_ ** _ about it,” Dean insisted, scowling down at the blueprints, “He’s not a collector, he’s not passionate about art, he just like  _ **_things_ ** _.” _

_ “Why does that bother you?” _

_ Charlie and Sam tensed. Dean understood rationally that Castiel’s question was likely born of curiosity, not judgment, but he couldn’t help the defensive anger simmering away in his blood. _

_ “Look,” he said finally, “there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a little luxury now and then. Hell, look around you,” he spread his arms to indicate the house they were in, “But people like Zachariah? They have  _ **_too_ ** _ much money, more than they could ever spend in a lifetime, and instead of doing anything useful or interesting with it, they buy a bunch of useless, stupid shit just to prove that they can.” _

_ Castiel was silent for a long moment. “You said you liked to steal things that would ‘fetch a pretty penny.’” Dean’s phrasing sounded unfamiliar in his mouth, even with the air quotes. “What do you do with  _ **_your_ ** _ wealth?” _

_ Dean took a slow breath; Castiel was clearly misunderstanding and lumping him into the same category as that obnoxious dick.  _

_ “We donate a lot of it,” Sam interjected hurriedly. “We keep some for ourselves, obviously, but we each decide how to distribute the rest of our cut. I usually make anonymous donations to scientific studies.” _

_ Charlie confirmed Sam’s explanation with a nod. _

_ “I see,” Castiel said, sounding softer, less accusatory. Dean relaxed his grip on the back of the chair. “That’s an interesting use of your wealth, I’d say.” A hand came up to squeeze his shoulder; an apology. _

_ Dean cleared his throat and refocused on the blueprints. “Take us through it, Charlie,” he said, “what’s the most valuable thing in the gallery right now?” _

_ “A sword,” she answered, pulling up a picture of a shining silver weapon with a rounded hilt and a long, tapered blade. “Three of them, actually. They were uncovered somewhere in Egypt and there’s all this hubbub around them because the hieroglyphs near where they were found claim they belonged to angels or something.”  _

_ “Angels, huh?” Dean tapped his fingers excitedly against the blueprints. “I’ve never stolen anything that holy before.” _

—

“Got your replacement?”

Castiel nodded and pulled his coat aside to show the replica Sam had created nestled safely in the fabric. As they approached the entrance there was a soft beep and the locks clicked open.

“Thanks Charlie,” Dean said, tugging the door open before ceasing verbal communication in favor of directing with his hands.

“My pleasure,” came Charlie’s voice in his ear, “The cameras are all on a loop and the alarms are off. You’ve got two guards making their rounds, so work fast; you’ll have about five minutes, maybe seven.”

Castiel’s heart beat steadily in his chest as they wandered through the dark rooms. Sam split off from them into an alcove holding the first blade and set to work disabling the security around its case. Castiel moved further into the gallery after Dean, stopping abruptly when Dean held up his fist.

A flashlight beam shone onto the carpet to their left, indicating an oncoming guard. Dean made another gesture for Castiel to stay out of sight and he did so, crouching and pressing himself close to the back of a dividing wall. He couldn’t help but be impressed as he watched Dean melt into the shadows, hidden amongst the display cases. It made Castiel think of ghosts.

The flashlight shone along the edge of his hiding place and Castiel held his breath. Footsteps drew closer and he shifted carefully around to the adjacent side of the separator; by the time the guard had reached his original hiding place, he was well out of sight. The guard wandered further away and Castiel exhaled. 

Dean reappeared next to him and urged him forward until they reached another alcove that hosted the second blade. Dean gestured for him to go ahead before vanishing in pursuit of the third. 

Castiel took a deep breath and disconnected the wire connecting the glass case to the base of the display.

“What’s the matter, Cas?” Charlie asked, her voice a little staticky, “Afraid I missed an alarm?”

He rolled his eyes at her teasing, setting the glass case down on the floor and producing Sam’s forgery from his jacket. The stand holding the real blade was pressure sensitive; he’d need to grab it and put the fake in place in one swift motion. With only a half-second delay, there wasn’t any margin for error.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself; on the count of three.

One…

Two…

_ Three. _

The forgery sat safely on the stand; the real thing was cool and heavy in his fist. No alarms went off. Castiel exhaled.

“Guys?” Charlie said, “I’m picking up some interference—” Castiel paused in reconnecting the glass to the base as Charlie’s voice stuttered and cut off.

“Charlie,” he whispered, standing perfectly still, straining his ears for footsteps in case the guards came back, “Are you there?”

“Well, well, well,” drawled a voice over his right shoulder, and Castiel’s heart leapt into his throat. “Who do we have here? That looks like Sam Winchester’s handiwork.”

Castiel turned slowly, fingers twitching for his pocket knife, but before he could identify the speaker something hard and heavy struck the back of his head. He collapsed to his knees, vision swimming, as the voice whispered something he couldn’t understand. The hard, heavy thing landed against his head again and his vision went dark.

—

Dean couldn’t help the bounce in his step as he turned into the alleyway to find Sam leaning against one of the buildings.

“Any trouble?” he asked, and Dean produced his silver blade and shook his head, smiling victoriously.

“Piece of cake, excluding Charlie’s technical difficulties.”

“Sorry about that,” Charlie said, perfectly audible again. “Something interrupted my signal; I’m tracing it now. I’ll need to recalibrate the comms later.”

“Let me know when you find the source, Charlie,” he answered, and then turned to Sam, eyebrow raised. “Fifteen blocks seems a little excessive, don’t you think?” 

Sam always insisted that they scatter and reconvene elsewhere after a heist.  He crossed his arms and gave him a pinched look. “Better safe than sorry, especially after the last job.” Dean rolled his eyes, exasperated.

“Jeez, I already apologized and let you pressure me into buying Cas so that it won’t happen again. What more do you want from me, Samantha?” Sam only shook his head.

“Where is he, anyway?” he asked, craning his neck to look past Dean at the vacant alleyway entrance.

“He’s not there?” Charlie echoed.

“Not yet. Thought he’d get here before me, actually,” Dean admitted, pushing his sleeve aside to check the time. “Long as he makes it back in the next ten minutes, we’re alright.” 

Sam leaned back against the building and closed his eyes. Dean fidgeted against the doubt that threatened at the edges of his mind. There was no reason to panic; it was Cas’ first time out on a job, after all. Maybe he’d been slowed down by one of the guards, or maybe he had taken a wrong turn somewhere along Sam’s unreasonably long path away from the gallery.

Maybe not.

“Charlie,” he barked when there were only two minutes left on the clock, “you got eyes on Cas?”

“Checking.”

“Dean—”

“Don’t.”

Sam sighed wearily but kept his thoughts to himself. Dean knew what he was thinking; it had occurred to him too. Unclenching his jaw and fists took conscious effort. Doubts swirled in him, imagined explanations for Cas’ absence forming at a frenetic pace, each one worse than the last.

“Dean…” Charlie’s voice was soft, wary, and it only made Dean’s hackles rise higher. “Cas’ comm is moving away from us, and fast. He’s gotta be in a car.”

Dean kept his gaze lowered, knowing he’d throw punches at the first person he laid eyes on, even if that person was Sam. Nails dug hard into his palms but it did nothing to relieve the despairing anger in his chest. 

Cas was leaving him. 

Perhaps he had only himself to blame. No matter how much he studied the wild omega, no matter how long they talked, no matter what kinds of threats he made, the final test never changed. Eventually, inevitably, it simply became a matter of trust. 

Aaron had failed the final test. Dean had put him through the wringer in an effort to vet him properly and Aaron had taken it all in stride, challenging him to push harder with impish brown eyes and a disarmingly kind smile. When Dean had extended his olive branch it had been with trepidation, an anxious and hopeful offering that left him vulnerable and open. Aaron had taken it readily, had clutched it in both fists and sworn to keep it safe if his life depended on it.

And then, on their very first job together, Aaron had disappeared into the arms of another alpha with several million dollar’s worth of Dean’s bounty. The olive branch lay splintered and forgotten on the floor.

Aaron’s life had indeed depended on keeping that olive branch safe, as it turned out.

“Shit,” Sam said from somewhere next to him, “Dean, there must be a reason. He’s not Aaron.”

Perhaps Sam was to blame; he’d pushed Dean to attend the auction despite being privy to the shattered remains Aaron left in his wake. Cas would likely never have crossed his path if not for Sam sticking his nose into Dean’s ruts.

“There’s more bad news,” Charlie growled, “The interference? A signal jammer.”

Perhaps Charlie was to blame. Maybe she should have done a more thorough background check. Perhaps the fault was Aaron’s for hurting him in the first place. Perhaps he could blame God or Satan, or the car passing by the alley. Anyone would do.

“Whose?” Sam demanded.

Castiel, that wild omega built strong and fierce, had cracked Dean open all over again and would need to answer for it. Something low in his chest whined pitifully at the thought of Cas’ betrayal, but Dean knew what he’d have to do to rectify the situation. Dean would find him, just like he found Aaron. 

Before Charlie could answer, static crackled in his ear and the nasally voice that drawled through slithered into his very core like toxic oil.

“Needed to borrow your frequency for a moment sweetheart, I’m sure you don’t mind.” 

Sam snarled in realization.

“Simmer down Sammy boy, just dropping by to say hello,” the voice chided lazily, then “Dean, Dean, Dean,” There was a sigh. “We’ve talked about how annoying it is when you interrupt my work,” the ugly voice singsonged.

“Alistair,” he growled, “As I recall,  _ you _ talked, and I told you to shove that rod further up your ass.”

Alistair chuckled humorlessly. “Crass, as ever, Dean. Some things never change.” More static, and then Dean could hear something scraping and scuffing in the background. “But  _ this _ change, this one I like.” More scuffling. “Quite a pretty thing you’ve found for yourself; he’s got fight in him, I see why the appeal.” Dean could just make out the sound of a blow landing followed by a shallow grunt.

“He’s a bit careless though,” Alistair laughed, tsking at him, “Didn’t stop to check his surroundings.” 

The blind rage searing through his blood quieted, collected itself into a steady, focused force drumming in time with his heartbeat. 

“You’ll give him back.” 

“Of course, of course,” Alistair assured him, “I’m happy to return him in exchange for the remaining angel blades.”

Dean met Sam’s eyes, as cold and determined as his own, and Sam nodded firmly.

“Fine.”

“Make it fast, Dean. This omega of yours might be strong, but I’m sure if I push enough buttons I’ll find his limits—”

A high-pitched whine made him flinch, but then Charlie’s voice was filtering through again.

“Dean, Sam, can you hear me? I swear to god, I’m gonna shove this fucker’s jammer down his throat—”

“We hear you Charlie,” Sam interjected, still wincing from the comm feedback.

“ _ Finally _ . Alright, what do we know?”

“Meet us back at the house,” Dean instructed, “We’re going after Alistair. Charlie, how do you feel about blowing something up?” The delighted squeal on the other end of the line was all the confirmation he needed.

Dean inhaled deep and exhaled slowly, following Sam out of the alleyway. Sam had been right; Cas  _ wasn’t _ Aaron. Cas outshone Aaron by entire continents and Dean felt a little sick at how he’d doubted him. But there was time to deal with that later; right now, there was a knot of anger in his chest and he intended to let it detonate against Alistair’s face.

Alistair was to blame. And Dean was gonna  _ find _ him.


	5. Chapter 5

Charlie had always been a valuable asset and friend to the Winchester brothers, but she was frequently underestimated (or, sometimes, entirely unnoticed) by the people they targeted. This almost certainly had to do with her vast technological skills; either she was relegated to a lower priority issue, or she did such a thorough job that no one knew she’d been present at all.

Save for a handful of people, no one learned about Charlie’s proclivity for pyrotechnics until it was far, far too late.

Alistair had crossed their path once or twice before. From what Dean knew of him, he was a slimy creature with no moral compass—not even a broken one—to speak of. He reminded Dean of the wealthy people he stole from; Alistair’s power came from evil acts instead of money, but he too lacked creativity in his actions. He was evil simply for the sake of being evil. 

Certainly, all three of them (four, if he included Cas) had moral compasses that were pretty damn skewed, but at least they  _ had _ them. At least they weren’t  _ boring _ .

When Dean walked into the kitchen after Sam and Charlie and declared that he was out of patience for dealing with Alistair, twin gleams of excited agreement flashed across their eyes.

Alistair was no match for Charlie’s intricate, lovingly designed arrangements of C4. Oh, she’d pouted and stomped when Dean insisted that she leave him alive—Dean would deal with Alistair personally—but he’d find a way to make it up to her. 

Through the smoldering remains of the building Dean could see Cas, bloodied and beaten and gagged, wrists bound above his head to the support beam he leaned against. Dean hurried forward and cut him loose, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder while he coughed and blinked against the dust and ash. 

“Cas, look at me.”

Cas did, eyes exhausted and unfocused, but no less fierce. Dean cupped his jaw, sweeping his thumb over a bruised cheekbone. An errant drop of blood got in his way and smeared wetly across Cas’ skin, but he paid it no mind. 

Blue eyes blinked at him, curious, and even Dean was surprised at his own sudden tenderness.

“What did he do to you?”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitched slightly upwards into a proud smirk. “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he replied, and Dean relished the sound of his voice, even raspy and tired as it was.

To their left, Sam and Charlie had Alistair and the remaining angel blade wrapped and ready to leave. Sam signaled their departure and tugged Alistair behind him, purposefully swerving so that he scraped and bumped over piles of rubble.

“Let’s go,” he said to Cas, sneering after Alistair’s bound, unconscious form, “We’ve got loose ends to tie up.”

Once outside, they both breathed a little more deeply; Charlie’s pyrotechnics had left his throat feeling lined with soot. He exhaled long and slow, rolling some of the tension out of his shoulders as Castiel fell into step next to him.

When he inhaled again, he caught something new on the crisp night air and stopped moving, taking careful breaths in an effort to suss out the source.

“Dean?”

It was difficult to remember Cas’ injuries in the enticing wake of his scent, but Dean tried his best as he pushed him back against the chain-link fence a few feet away, the metal jangling and clinking around them. Fingers grabbed at the fence on either side of Cas’ arms as he pressed close, boxing him in and leaning forward to nose at his neck. 

Something woody—cedar, maybe?—filtered up from beneath the blood and grime, punctuated by heady notes of bergamot, spicy and cool. Dean filled his lungs with it as arousal curled in his stomach.

“Your scent blockers are wearing off,” he explained, voice heavy. Castiel nodded but said nothing, only turned his head to the side and let Dean breathe.

He could easily get drunk like this, he thought. Maybe he’d haul Cas’ legs around him and fuck him against the fence, keep his face buried against his skin—

An angry snarl left him as the scent suddenly soured, invaded by burnt rubber and the coppery smell that hung around blood.

“What did he do to you?” he growled through bared teeth. Castiel didn’t look at him, kept his head turned away and swallowed.

“Answer me,” Dean demanded, slamming a fist against the fence and sending it rattling. He had to know. Whatever it was, he knew it would make him see red, but he had to know. 

“He tried to mark me,” Castiel said, quiet and furious and defiant, “Tried to have me bend over for him.”

At that, Dean quieted, pausing to study him. Alistair’s scent was all over him, but it wasn’t—Dean almost howled at the idea—mixed into his. He didn’t smell claimed.

Castiel turned to face him and Dean searched his face, peering into coolly unapologetic blue eyes.

“I bit him,” Cas explained, “both times he tried. I’m sure you’ll see the damage later.” That proud smirk was back, victorious. Dean’s anger settled back to a simmer and he laughed, amazed and impressed. His wild, strong omega.

“C’mon,” he said, tugging Cas off the fence and towards his car, “you need a long shower.”

— 

By the time he had finished his shower, Alistair had been hauled off somewhere (none too gently, he hoped) and Dean was nowhere to be found. He’d scrubbed his whole body twice, relieved to peel Alistair’s putrid smell from his pores and send it swirling down the drain amidst the sweat and blood and grime. Even so, he forewent his own shirts in favor of borrowing one of Dean’s, indulging briefly in the smoky smell of whiskey and fine leather.

He found Sam in the kitchen, beer bottle in hand, staring absently down at the three angel blades on the island. He looked up when Castiel entered, expression smoothing into one close to sympathy.

“Feel better?”

“Yes, thank you,” Castiel answered, “Where is Dean?”

Sam jerked his head back toward the hallway. “Dealing with Alistair,” he supplied, something gleeful sparkling in his eyes. “D’you want a beer or anything?” He indicated his own bottle, but Castiel shook his head.

“No, thanks. I’ll just...wait for Dean.”

His feet took him to the living room where he sank onto the couch, suddenly sullen. Something itched in him, scraped along the insides of his skin and made him feel restless and agitated. Alcohol would likely dull the feeling eventually, but some subconscious part of him knew a drink would not effectively scratch this particular itch, whatever it was. A scowl furrowed his brow.

Sam didn’t need to specify that Dean and Alistair had disappeared behind the heavy door in the hallway. Initially, he hadn’t spared a second thought for the one place forbidden to him; everyone was entitled to their own secrets and besides, there were plenty of other rooms to inhabit. Now, he wondered.

‘Dealing with Alistair,’ Sam had said, and Dean had been candid about his willingness to tie up loose ends if a situation called for it.

He should feel grateful, he supposed. The thought of Alistair suffering behind that door should have pleased him, filled him with a sense of relief or vindication, and to some extent it did. But something else lingered underneath, something hot and angry and  _ jealous _ .

It was  _ Castiel _ who had been tied up and held hostage.  _ Castiel _ who had weighed his value against the remaining two angel blades, trying to guess whether he would be considered worth saving or declared acceptable collateral damage.  _ Castiel _ who’s nose had been clogged with burning rubber as Alistair panted, humid and hungry, against his neck as though he had every right to.

The itch under his skin intensified and Castiel stood. Dean’s word that Alistair had been dealt with would never be enough, not if he couldn’t revel in it himself. There would be no real vindication unless Castiel knew without a shadow of a doubt that Alistair had suffered. 

The thought propelled him forward until he stood in front of the heavy door in the hallway, listening intently for Dean’s voice, or a scream, or a footstep,  _ anything _ . He warred with himself, caught between Dean’s explicit order not to snoop and his urgent need to see what lay beyond the door.

The choice was made for him. Without so much as a creak, the door swung forcefully inward and Castiel was scowling directly at Dean. All traces of warmth were gone from his eyes, wholly eclipsed by a steely focus. A thick plastic smock covered his clothes from neck to ankle. Silence stretched.

“Alistair is downstairs,” Dean stated finally.

Castiel nodded, stepping backward when Dean moved into the hallway, closing the door firmly behind him. He searched Castiel’s face for a moment before turning towards the kitchen. Castiel followed silently, watched as Dean rummaged around the top shelf of the storage closet and pulled down a nail gun. 

Dean faced him again, his unsure body language contradicting his resolute facial expression. 

“He deserves everything I give him and more.”

Castiel nodded again, puzzled. Of course he did; why did Dean feel the need to justify himself?

“Go find a place to relax,” Dean said gruffly, “I’ll find you when I’m finished.” He clapped a hand against Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel could tell the slightly awkward gesture was meant to be comforting.

“Wait,” he insisted, catching Dean’s wrist, “Let me join you.”

Surprise flickered across Dean’s face and then the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

“Alright,” he agreed, “On one condition: you will not say a word to Alistair, no matter what he might say to you. Or about you. Can you do that, Cas?”

“Yes,” he blurted, almost before Dean had finished the question. The itch under his skin had abated and a thrumming anticipation had taken its place. Unconsciously, his fist closed tighter around Dean’s captive wrist. Dean chuckled as he pulled free and moved past him to push the heavy door open, Castiel hot on his heels.

The basement was cool and damp, dimly lit by a meager slit of a window and a single bulb that swayed from the ceiling, flickering occasionally and emitting an electric hum. An earthy smell clung to everything and the old wood creaked and groaned under the weight of the house. Beneath the window was an immaculately organized workbench, hammers and wrenches absent in favor of an impressive assortment of knives and other weaponry. The far wall was covered floor to ceiling in the same thick plastic Dean’s smock was made of, and another piece covered part of the floor.

And there, tied up against what looked like a crude cross in the middle of the plastic sheet, was Alistair, already bruised and bloody from one round with Dean.

“What’s this?” he drawled cheerfully, even as blood dripped from his mouth, “Dean, you’ve always known me so well; I perform better with an audience.” He laughed humorlessly. Castiel sneered, pleased when the laugh turned into a hacking cough.

Dean set the nail gun down on the workbench and gestured for Castiel to stand next to it, well out of the way.

“If you want me to stop, or you want to leave,” he said, leaning close and speaking into Castiel’s ear, “just say so.”

Dean’s thoughtfulness was touching, he supposed, but completely unnecessary. He nodded anyway.

Behind them, Alistair gave another hacking cough, and the steely focus returned to Dean’s eyes and blotted out anything even remotely resembling thoughtfulness. He plucked the nail gun off the workbench and Castiel felt a smirk split across his face as he stood back to watch.

“Whoops, sorry,” Dean said to Alistair, “You’ve been tied up like that for a long time. Let’s fix that.” He chuckled softly.

“Fuck you,” Alistair spat. 

“ _ Language _ ,” Dean tutted reproachfully as he reached up to untie one of Alistair’s wrists. As soon as it was free, Alistair made a clumsy swipe at Dean, thrashing against his remaining bonds. “Jeez, some house guest you are.” Dean caught the flailing wrist and twisted Alistair’s arm sharply back, drawing a pained grunt from him. 

“I’m gonna need your help to demonstrate a few things,” Dean continued, maneuvering Alistair’s arm to extend outwards until it was parallel to the arm of the makeshift cross, “You don’t mind, do you?” Alistair snarled at him. “Great, thanks. See, Cas here isn’t very handy with power tools,” He brandished the nail gun. “and I’ve been meaning to teach him a few things.”

“What does he need power tools for?” Alistair chuckled darkly, “As long as he stays pretty, he shouldn’t be doing anything other than presenting—” He cut himself off with a strained exhale as Dean slammed his arm back against the splintered wood with more force than necessary.

“Paying attention, Cas?” Dean asked as though Alistair hadn’t spoken, “With a nail gun, it’s all about the angle.” He pressed the gun against the inside of Alistair’s wrist off-kilter. “If you’re sloppy, like this, you risk ruining your project or hurting yourself.” He pulled the trigger and there was a sound rather like a loud stapler clicking closed. Alistair swore loudly as the nail sliced open his wrist on its trajectory towards the back wall. 

“See? No good,” Dean explained, “What you really want to do is keep the barrel perfectly perpendicular to your work...” He slid the barrel to the center of Alistair’s palm and angled the gun properly. “...like this. And then—”

Alistair howled loudly as the trigger clicked and sent a nail shooting through his hand and into the wood behind it.

“Perfect shot!” Dean declared cheerfully, ignoring Alistair’s whimpered curses, “Look how well centered that is.” 

Castiel nodded somberly from his position by the workbench, eyes greedily tracking the blood that seeped from the wound and pattered heavily against the plastic sheet. Dean stepped in front of Alistair to untie his other hand.

"It's like he thinks you're worth teaching," Alistair laughed cruelly, looking under Dean's arm at Castiel, "Like he thinks you're worth more than a good fu—" The gun went off and Alistair howled again as a nail embedded itself into his thigh.  


"Oops," Dean deadpanned. Castiel laughed.

Alistair struggled as Dean tugged his other arm into place. Dean made cooing noises at him as he worked, as though he were comforting a frightened child.

"Hey, hey," he soothed, "None of that. We need to finish our demonstration, okay?" 

He turned back to Castiel, his voice returning to its normal volume. "Now, a single nail will do the trick in many cases," he explained, "But sometimes you want to be _really_ sure that your project will stay in place. In those cases, it's not a bad idea to add a nail or two." Alistair grunted and twitched as Dean pressed the nail gun to his palm.

"Shhh," Dean cooed at him, "Okay, big breath; it'll be over before you know it." The nail gun fired three times in rapid succession. Alistair screamed. "See?" Dean said, smiling, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Alistair drew ragged breaths, cursing Dean at the top of each one, fingers twitching intermittently as though trying to form a fist. He heaved and spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. Castiel’s lip curled in disgust.

“Look at this, Castiel,” Alistair drawled, exhaling a sound somewhere between a wheeze and a delirious giggle, “Look what he does when he gets just a  _ little _ upset.” Castiel watched as Dean walked calmly back to the workbench and deposited the nail gun in favor of a shining silver handgun. 

“How long, I wonder,” Alistair slurred on, “until you’re the one nailed to a piece of wood?”

The look Dean gave him wasn’t an unbreakable vow, Castiel knew. Perhaps someday he would become a loose end in need of tying, and if that day came Castiel had no doubt that Dean would handle the situation as he saw fit, no matter how much it might pain him to do so. 

Dean wouldn’t— _ couldn’t _ —promise that that day would never come, and Castiel didn’t expect him to. No, the hard edge in Dean’s eyes was an olive branch, an open trust that Castiel wouldn’t force his hand. Wouldn’t put him in a situation where ends needed tying.

It was an odd bond they shared; dangerous and dark and unstable. As he watched Alistair squirm feebly, blood leaking from him and smearing around his feet, tortured by Dean on his behalf, Castiel couldn’t think of a single thing he’d trade that bond for.

Dean moved to face Alistair, turning the gun over in his hands thoughtfully.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean addressed him without turning around. “Do you think it takes more strength to kill someone, or more strength  _ not  _ to kill someone? Personally—” He aimed the gun at Alistair with the safety still on, pantomiming lining up a shot. “—I think it depends on the situation. For example, Alistair here has killed a lot of people who didn’t deserve to die.” Alistair let out another wheezing laugh. “I don’t think that takes strength; any pathetic schmuck can throw a temper tantrum.” The wheezing laugh turned into a growl that went ignored. Castiel smiled, feeling cruel satisfaction at Alistair’s damaged ego.

“On the other hand, killing someone like Alistair  _ does _ take strength.”

“A worthy opponent, am I Dean?” Blood dripped from Alistair’s split lip as it stretched into a smirk.

“Not at all, not at all,” Dean assured him, laughing, “It’s just that killing you is...well, it’s kind of a letdown. There are a thousand more creative ways I could think of to drag out your suffering until I was satisfied.” He sighed glumly, and Castiel heard the safety click off. “But the truth is, everyone will be better off when you’re gone. I need to find the strength to put aside my selfishness and kill you, even though it means I’ll never see you hurt the way you deserve.”

Alistair glared fiercely as Dean raised the gun, his jaw set in determination.

The itch under Castiel’s skin returned and flared worse than before. In another second Alistair would be dead and Castiel would still feel angry and violent, upset with himself for not stepping in when he had the chance.

“Wait!”

Dean immediately lowered his hand but did not turn to face him. Alistair laughed.

“Your pet doesn’t think you’re strong,” he taunted, “He wants you to leave me alive. Maybe he’s willing to bend over for me after all.”

Castiel stood and moved next to Dean, noting his tense shoulders and the slight tremor where his hand gripped the gun too tightly.

“Dean,” he pleaded, curling his fingers around Dean’s forearm, “Let me?”

Dean’s eyes widened almost comically in surprised delight, lit up by something startlingly close to adoration. He stepped aside, nodding eagerly and transferring the gun to Castiel’s hands. The metal was cool and heavy, weighed down with finality. Castiel raised the gun as hands came to his hips and Dean’s voice spoke softly against his ear.

“You want a strong stance,” Dean murmured, “Feet a little further apart, square off your hips, that’s it.” His hands smoothed up Castiel’s back and across his shoulders, pressing down gently, “Drop your shoulders back, good.” Castiel shivered as Dean brushed his lips across his neck. “Now just aim, and—”

The loud crack bounced and echoed around the basement, leaving his ears ringing, but nothing,  _ nothing _ was as satisfying as watching terror flash across Alistair’s face as he was forced to accept his mortality. The bullet had landed just above his clavicle and into the soft meat of his throat. The sputtering, gurgling sounds he made as blood burbled out of the wound scratched the itch under Castiel’s skin better than he could have asked for. 

The light faded from Alistair’s eyes and his body slumped forward, giving a final abortive twitch before falling still. Castiel lowered the gun, feeling drunk.

Behind him, Dean murmured praise into his skin as his hands wandered across Castiel’s shoulder blades and down against his ribs to squeeze tightly at his hips.

“So well, you did so well, Cas.”

Amidst the smell of blood and earth, notes of leather and whiskey swirled and grew stronger, and Castiel turned in Dean’s arms to find his green eyes streaked with bright red. 

“Dean,” he whispered, tauntingly close to Dean’s lips, “you’re going into rut.”

For a moment they stood still, hovering on the edge of a precipice and wondering how far down it went. Wondering who would jump first.

And then, with a forceful shove, Castiel pushed out of Dean’s arms and tore up the stairs, listening for the telltale sounds of Dean giving chase.


	6. Chapter 6

One moment his hands were gliding around Castiel’s clothed waist and he was staring into liquid sapphire eyes, contemplating leaning forward to mouth along the base of his neck as the beginnings of his rut took root and spread. The next, he was stumbling backward as Castiel fled up the stairs and through the door, sending the hot, aggressive need to catch and claim careening out of control.

He thundered up the stairs after the elusive omega, tearing the plastic smock off as he went. Sam’s smell lingered in the hallway; he must still be in the house. Rationally, Dean knew that Sam would never challenge him for Cas, regardless of his alpha instincts, but after Alistair he felt wired and possessive, more so than usual. Even the familiar smell of his brother had him snarling low in his throat, quickening his steps in the direction of Castiel’s scent.

Alistair had gotten much too close, had rubbed his stink all over Cas and tried to claim him, and Dean was not eager to be in the same situation ever again. Castiel wouldn’t leave his bed until he was irrevocably marked by Dean.

Movement pulled his attention to the stairs and he turned in time to see Cas sprinting up them, taunting him with a wink as he caught Dean’s eye. 

Dean caught him just before his bedroom, pressed him flat against the wall beside his door and ground himself against the swell of his ass. 

“Not fast enough, Cas,” he rumbled against the top of Cas’ spine, nosing at the back of his neck. Cas let out a breathy laugh and turned his head so that his cheek was pressed to the wall.

“I’d be disappointed if I could outrun you,” he said, and Dean pulled at him until he turned around. The cheeky smile was new, but it looked good on him, Dean decided. 

Dean dragged both hands roughly through Cas’ hair, tugging on the soft strands until he tilted back and exposed his neck. The smell of bergamot and cedar urged him forward and he buried his nose in the hollow of Cas’ throat, wanting to inhale deep and slow until he’d had his fill but incapable of quieting the burn in his blood that had him scraping teeth against the skin and laving the spot with wide, wet licks.

Cas hummed under his ministrations and Dean pulled him forward to kiss him properly, relishing soft, pliant lips beneath his own and licking into his mouth, tasting him. He dropped one hand to Cas’ thigh and hiked it up around his own waist, pulling him forward as Dean ground down, making his intent clearer than it already was. Cas kissed him back earnestly, dizzyingly, and his urgency and obvious interest pulled a pleased growl from his chest. He felt drunk, selfish, and the knowledge that Cas writhed beneath him, eager to satisfy his physical greed in whatever way Dean asked of him, soothed the tendrils of possessive aggression that curled around the back of his mind.

His mouth slipped sideways along Cas’ jaw and over his pulse and further still until he was blocked by the soft fabric of a shirt. When he inhaled, he was surprised to find his own scent mingled amongst the provocative notes that revealed Cas’ arousal and he pulled back slightly.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” he observed, voice rough, and Castiel nodded, cheeks flushing slightly.

“After Alistair, I...the shower helped, but I wanted something more...to help me forget, I suppose. I needed something better.” 

The flush remained but Cas held his gaze, blue irises thin to accommodate lust-blown pupils. Dean felt struck by unfamiliar emotions he had no name for. 

“Cas,” he breathed, closing his lips over Castiel’s in an indulgent kiss, and when he drew back Cas looked pleasantly dazed. 

“I’m gonna make sure you don’t need my clothes to smell like me.”

He growled the words against Cas’ mouth and then they were kissing fervently again as Dean fumbled beside them for the doorknob, uncaring when the door bounced sharply against the wall with the force of Dean’s push. Though it pained him to do so even for a second, he pulled himself away and dropped Cas’ leg, urging him through the door and stripping himself of his clothes as he followed.

The last time they had done this he hadn’t bothered to do more than shove his pants out of the way, but with his rut roaring through him he wanted to feel as much of Cas’ warm skin as he possibly could. By the time he’d yanked his shirt carelessly over his head, Cas was completely bare and kneeling on the bed. With a sultry look thrown over his shoulder he sank forward, arching back and presenting himself for Dean.

There would be other chances to be slow and purposeful. For now, he wasted no time grabbing at Cas’ cheeks and spreading them wide to lick where he was open and wet, lapping at the spicy-sweet slick and digging nails into his skin. Cas whined low and arched further, pressing his hips unashamedly back against Dean’s generous mouth. Dean hummed against him, pleased, and shoved his tongue past the ring of muscle and licked at Cas’ insides, hollowing his cheeks and sucking at his rim. 

The sound Cas made was almost a sob, a broken throaty “ _ yes _ ” muffled against the covers. Dean resolved to do this more often, sometime when he had the wherewithal to take his time and tease Cas without clemency until he was a whining, shivering mess. 

Strong thighs shook beneath his fingers and pride swelled in him, but his own cock hung heavy and throbbing between his legs and the need to bury himself inside Cas until he found release was quickly becoming unbearable. He pulled his mouth from Cas’ hole with an obscene sound and shoved two fingers all the way in, twisting and pumping them quickly even as Cas hissed at the sudden stretch. A third finger teased at his rim and soon joined the other two, spreading and stretching him as quickly as he dared. 

Bless whoever was responsible for Cas’ ability and willingness (and desire, Dean suspected) to be manhandled. A simpering, soft, delicate omega never would have been able to keep up. 

He pulled his fingers free and smeared the wetness that lingered on them over his aching cock, groaning at the modicum of relief the action offered. 

“Dean,” Cas rasped, and Dean’s cock twitched at the sight of him, panting and shaking with legs spread wide, waiting to be mounted. “Dean, fuck me.”

_ Pleading _ to be mounted. And Dean was nothing if not chivalrous in the face of such a request.

He took hold of Cas’ hips and thrust forward, slipping over Cas’ wet hole to slick his cock, and then in one good slide he sheathed himself to the hilt, satisfied growl drowned out by Cas’ wrecked howl as Dean’s hips came flush against him. 

Dean pet and scratched across Cas’ lower back and ass and thighs, willing himself to stay still for just a moment, just long enough to relish the shake in Cas’ frame and the vice-like, silken grip around his cock. Cas panted roughly, and Dean ran his hands along his back until he was draped over him, one hand buried in Cas’ hair and the other gripping at his bicep for leverage. 

When he could bear the wait no longer, he leaned down to mouth at the shell of Cas’ ear, murmuring a broken, desperate “Hold on, Cas.”

And then he drew back until he almost slipped free before snapping his hips forward, again and again with reckless abandon, delirious with lust and pleasure, high on the punched-out cries sliding past Cas’ pink lips. One of Cas’ hands scrabbled at the hand in his hair and in a brief moment of cognizance Dean loosened his grip, wondering if he’d hurt him, but Castiel yanked him back and held him there, apparently quite okay with having his face pressed so hard into the mattress it was surely difficult to draw breath. 

Perfect, he was perfect and exactly what Dean needed. All hard edges and quick wit and no-nonsense, eager to give himself over to Dean but unwilling to cower before anyone else in the world, accepting and even indulgent of the darkness that pulsed and lingered in Dean’s veins. How he had ever been remotely satisfied with anyone else was beyond him. 

And yet, Dean had doubted him. 

His thrusts stuttered slightly as a tendril of self-loathing gripped him, reminding him of his earlier readiness to believe that Cas had betrayed him as Aaron had. How ridiculous he’d been to assume something so cruel of the man beneath him who was taking all Dean could give and begging for more. How cruel to have doubted him when he had not only taken Dean’s olive branch but offered one of his own. 

Dean changed his rhythm from deep, piercing thrusts to fast, shallow ones that he knew rubbed persistently against Cas’ prostate and bent his head, whispering apologies and pleas into golden skin.

_ Don’t leave me, _ he mouthed desperately against Cas’ shoulder blades.  _ I’m sorry, don’t leave me. Don’t give me an excuse to doubt you, ever _ . 

Dean listened to the broken versions of his name leaving Cas’ mouth in a continuous stream and felt his knot swell. Cas must have felt it too because he cried out and swiveled his hips filthily against Dean, his tight rim massaging at Dean’s growing knot relentlessly. 

Dean kissed and licked at the spot where Cas’ neck met his shoulder, couldn’t stop his teeth from grinding dangerously down, feeling his jaw ache with restraint as he fought the urge to clamp down until the skin broke and he tasted blood. 

“Do it,” Cas growled, startling him, “Do it, bite me. I know you want to.” 

It wasn’t a plea or a suggestion or mere permission, it was a  _ demand,  _ and Dean was only too happy to oblige. He kept his lips pressed to the spot as he thrust harder, waiting, feeling his knot snag tauntingly on Cas’ rim over and over again until finally,  _ finally _ , it caught.

His orgasm burned through him and he sank his teeth into Cas’ neck, growling and groaning as blood filled his mouth, hips twitching and grinding into Cas as his cock throbbed and pulsed and coated his insides with sticky warmth.

Beneath him Cas whined, and Dean fought through his haze to slide a hand down around his cock, still hard and hot, and jerk it in long, firm strokes. They both groaned when Cas shifted and tugged at Dean’s knot again, and Dean sucked and licked sloppily at the bite on Cas’ neck until he felt his cock throb and twitch, spilling his release into Dean’s hand. Cas gasped sharply, twitching as Dean stroked him through it.

Dean rested his forehead against Cas’ back as his heartbeat slowly steadied. His rut was far from over, but for the moment the urgent need to fuck had cooled, leaving him sated and sleepy. Eventually, he shifted onto his side, dragging Cas with him and breathing against his hair.

“That was great sex,” he commented, “Maybe I should make a habit of letting you kill someone before we fuck.”

Castiel chuckled darkly and sank back against him.

—

In the lounge, Sam poured two fingers of whiskey as the billiard balls clacked and rolled along the pool table. 

“Do you think we should tell them?” He asked, leaning against the side of the table and handing one of the drinks to Charlie.

“Tell them what?” she asked, one eyebrow raised skeptically, “That Cas triggered Dean’s rut a week early just by being off his scent blockers and the likelihood of that happening outside of fated-to-mate pairs is infinitesimally small?” She scoffed. “Dean doesn’t strike me as the type to go all gooey-eyed over the idea of a ‘true mate’.”

Sam shrugged. The notion of true mates was old-fashioned, certainly, especially when considered against developments in modern medicine that had, except in a handful of very rare cases, disproved the theory of true mates being compatible on a biological level.

“Okay, maybe they aren’t true mates,” he conceded, “I guess they just have a more...profound bond, or something.”

He sipped at his drink as Charlie lined up her next shot.


End file.
